


Strahd's Longest Standing Enemy

by Whozawhatcha



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Original Work, Pathfinder (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Curse of Strahd, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, Gen, Homebrew Content, Hurt/Comfort, sometimes i write content for my players, the goodest dragonborn and the most emotionally constipated elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22688902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whozawhatcha/pseuds/Whozawhatcha
Summary: Barovia is a place that weighs down on its inhabitants until they are a shadow of their former self. Arlen's history is so far gone and yet he clings to it, because it's the only thing that gives him hope. A colleague and friend loosens his tongue about the griefs that plague him.(This Curse of Strahd campaign is heavily homebrewed, but this takes place as my players make their final push against Castle Ravenloft to finally kill Strahd and free Barovia.)(Mostly written for my players, as I like to show them bits and pieces of the NPCs. Also for me, because I love my NPCs. I was quite proud of this piece and decided to share.)
Relationships: Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s), original elf character(s)/original dragonborn character(s)
Kudos: 4
Collections: Dungeons and Dragon exploits





	Strahd's Longest Standing Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place at the zenith of the campaign, as my players make their final push against Castle Ravenloft to finally kill Strahd and free Barovia. The Village of Barovia is under siege as the players' allies defend the town while the PCs storm the castle. There are mentions of player characters and a slew of homebrew characters as once my players finish CoS, they will head into completely homebrewed story.
> 
> Heath is a Zeal Cleric in a relationship with one of the PCs, Melinda (mentioned only).  
> Arlen is an Order Domain Cleric/Circle of the Land (forest) Druid.
> 
> This is a spotlight on their least favorite NPC, and through the eyes of their most favorite NPC.
> 
> ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**“What if the storm ends  
And I don't see you  
As you are now  
Ever again?**

**A perfect halo  
** **Of gold hair and lightning**  
**Sets you off against**  
**The planet's last dance"**

**_What If The Storm Ends? __ The Snow Patrol_ **

When I finish Hallowing the bar, people cry and clap for joy. They touch my shoulders and back like I’m some godsend to the village, and I do my best to assure them and deflect their praise. Any dedicated cleric can Hallow a place with the right materials and time, but the Village of Barovia is so isolated from Vallaki and buckling under the thumb of Strahd’s power. We’re long overdue to set up a proper outpost here.

The tavern beams with sunlight in the early morning. A whole day spent using magic and in rigorous prayer, and we finally have a safe haven for the citizens. It’s not enough--the whole village can’t fit in the tavern and the few buildings around it--but it’s more than we had before. For that, I’m thankful.

I hustle back to the front. I could use sleep, I know, but I want to make sure the troops are hanging tough. The nights are worse with the vampires free to roam, but the day doesn’t relent either. Strahd knows better than to give quarter or let his foe recharge. The skeletons reform and march again. The spirits of the dead rise from the earth over and over, cursed to never rest.

Our soldiers sleep in shifts and trade out with one another. For every one that falls that we fail to bring back, it’s one more dead to add to Strahd’s army. I ache for Tourmaline’s strength and the way she can heal an entire retinue of knights with one spell.

When I pass the church, Gauntlet members call out to me. I raise a fist to them. Then, I meet our camp lines and survey the battlefield from here.

From what I can tell, it’s another night endured. Our paladins are running on empty--battered on the front lines, Crusader’s Mantels winking out as their concentration drops, any Aids and Blessings long gone. Our clerics are flinging cantrips, holding on to the last of their spell strength for healing. Someone tenacious near the center has stepped forward with a last, hopeful Daylight that breaks up the center pack of undead.

And there, in the center of it, I see Arlen. He’s a whirlwind of shortswords on the battlefield, cutting quick and too fast for the enemy to catch. His blades are swift as a river, carving a clear path for those with him. His spellcasting is absurdly quick--I see him drop a Heroism spell into a flagging ally, whirl around and release a Thunderclap that hits my ears and blasts skeletons into pieces. The soldier, renewed with a burst of energy, follows Arlen’s sharp order and immediately makes an attack at the nearest foe.

Even though it’s the dead of winter, I watch him lift his hand, and the clouds shift to his will. Electricity crawls over his fingers. He slashes his arm through the air, Calls Lightning from the sky, and it hits the ground with a crack and flash of light. The undead in the area shred under his power.

As I watch him, I can’t help but think he was suited for this kind of leadership. For how much he hates the front, he’s sharp. The lines have held strong under his guidance. The troops respond to the sound of his voice. He can do things the rest of us can’t--he sleeps in absurdly short bursts, allowing him to take three shifts in a row when I could not. Even in short rests, his affinity to the earth lets him recover spells and run right back into battle.

He’s never fully explained to me how that works, but from what I understand, it’s a druid thing.

The front lines are calming. We retreat back, and Arlen takes his shots where he can. I watch him fling lightning from the sky, carving through swathes of retreating undead. The troops begin to switch out, carrying our dead and wounded back while fresh knights move ahead for the day shift.

I watch Arlen. He still hasn’t let up. He doesn’t relent until the entire shift switches, and then, blood spattered and muddy, he sees me through the falling snow. My tail flicks when he walks my way. I sharply remind myself that the Righteous Hand has cause to suspect him of treachery.

_I don’t understand. Does she expect him to make whatever move he’s planning now, during the assault on the castle? Show his colors and throw in his lot before we make a real strike against Strahd?_

He looked like he was giving his everything out there. If he intends to betray us, I don’t think it’s now.

“Heath,” he says. His soft steps end in front of me. “The tavern?”

“Hallowed,” I tell him.

“Good.” He’s still bleeding. Dark ichor stains the front of his armor. I reach out to heal him, but he slaps my hand away. “Save it. I’m fine.” Pale green eyes cut over me. “Are you in any condition for the next shift? You look exhausted.”

I can’t help but laugh at that, and Arlen’s face twists in puckered annoyance. “Me? You look like you went through hell and hell was glad to be rid of you!”

His lips thin, but I see them twitch. “It might be better to have you rest for the night,” he says crisply. “I can take a brief rest, get them through the day before the next big wave hits.”

“I can handle it, Arlen,” I tell him. For all his bellyaching about playing into Strahd’s hands with a rehash of the Barovian Bloodbath, he’s really putting in overtime here. I give him a crooked grin. “I’ve got plenty of fight left in me and more spellcasting than you right now. Day’s easy. I’ll sneak a nap in if I need it, but you need a proper rest.”

Arlen’s face is severe, but he seems to relent. He casts one look back to the battlefield before saying, “Fine then.” There’s the briefest dip of his shoulders as the adrenaline begins to wear off; the subtlest curve over the wound he won’t let me treat. “Where am I staying, the church?”

“You can use the room they gave me,” I tell him. I start walking, and soundless, he falls in stride with me. “I’ve barely used it, honestly. Told Father Donovich it really wasn’t needed, but he insisted.” It wasn’t, of course, until very, very recently. The bite of winter is cold, but my body warms.

“Perks of your position,” Arlen reminds me.

“I’m still getting used to it.”

The church is full of wounded and resting Gauntlet members. Many of them sleep in the pews and slouched against walls, or knelt at the Morninglord’s altar in prayer. I lead Arlen to the small room I was allotted, and I let him inside. He sits on the edge of the bed, and he has a good poker face, but I see him wincing as he peels out of his armor.

Is it all a good show? He’ll bleed for us, but secretly throw his lot in with Strahd? I like to think I can get a good read on people, and I’ve never sensed anything untoward with Arlen. Critical, yes. Overcautious, yes. Standoffish, yes. But a traitor?

He passes his hand over his wound, and it stitches up. He does the same to his torn tunic, and mends it. Arlen strips off the bloodied shirt, sits up, and frowns in my direction. “What is it?”

I jump. “Oh! It’s nothing. Sorry. I should--”

“Don’t give me that shit.” Arlen pulls his braid down, and due to my lack of a comb, begins to card his fingers through the knots. I should see if someone packed one and can lend it to him. He’s always had pretty golden hair, but it’s had the color sucked out of it after so long in this hellish country. “You’re a terrible liar, Heath. What happened?”

“Nothing, really,” I say, wincing when it even sounds like a lie to me. “I’m just worried about Melinda and her crew, that’s all.”

Arlen studies me, and I tuck my tail close to my ankles. There’s a beat where I half expect him to spontaneously jump up from the bed like it’s made of fire, but he simply asks, “They have a plan, yes?”

My face pinches up. I squeeze my eyes shut. “As much as the Half Orc’s Harem ever has.”

Arlen tsks his tongue. “She’s half Elf too, I don’t see why she chooses the Orc moniker.”

“Maybe because her Orc traits are more apparent?”

“She acts like being an Elf is--” He scowls and drops his line of thought as quickly as he pursued it. He tosses his long hair to one side, yanking through it, and my sightline lingers over his pointed ears instead of his eyes. “What’s wrong, Heath.”

I step inside the room and use my tail to shut the door behind me. I shuffle on my feet. The silence stretches between us, and Arlen watches me as I scramble for a proper lie. A plausible one. Something he’ll at least not pursue--

I haven’t said anything, but he sees something in me. His spine snaps straight, and his eyes blaze.

“They think I’m the traitor, don’t they?”

It’s harder, I think, to lie to the people you know and care for. I think it’s harder to conceal your intentions from friends when they’ve known you for years. And Arlen has always been so perceptive. My shoulders slouch. I don’t even bother trying to lie.

“Yes.”

Arlen hisses. He jolts to his feet and paces the small room and back. His hair is still loose and disheveled. I can see the pink scar over his chest, a scar properly earned protecting his own on the front. He’s muddy. Blood spattered. He’s usually so immaculate and neat that seeing him like this, at his wit’s end, is incongruent with the Arlen I’m used to.

He whirls on me, eyes burning, jaw taunt as a rope, and he spits, “I thought they agreed allegations against me were insubstantial! I’m not the traitor! I’ve been with this branch of the Gauntlet in Barovia for two HUNDRED years! I’ve been here since its inception! I would never--!” His breath catches. I watch the realization of things flit over his features, and I can’t read anything fake in him.

“God,” he breathes. He looks at me, incredulous and outraged when he says, “This is because of my friendship with Theltama, isn’t it? Because I was there at the inception of things with her, because of my trust in her, because I voted we give her a second chance after her children? Because she's been outed as traitorous, then I’m clearly in league with her too?”

My jaw finally unlocks. “Arlen--”

“Don’t!” He points at me, anger and hurt burning his cheeks red. “I know what this is! This is a test! Diama KNEW I didn’t want to be on the front, so she sent me out here to test my loyalties.” He snarls under his breath and rakes a hand through his hair. “Fine then. Fine! If she thinks she can test me, then let her! What I don’t understand is why she won’t send Tourmaline out here! She has twice the healing powers the rest of us have! If we get caught out on the front and we keep losing soldiers like this--”

He falters again. My heart pitches watching the truth of it all shatter him, and his gestures fall slack. He looks at me with a shadow in his eyes, and he shakes his head. He rasps, “No. Not Tourmaline.”

I rub my hands on my thighs. I look at the floor, because what can I say to him to make it better? We let corruption weed its way into the Gauntlet without even noticing. I know we all can’t be compromised--I’ve fought with too many good men and women that have shed blood, sweat, and tears together. We need to weed out the corrupt. But for all Leopold’s extremism, I can’t help but think sometimes that maybe he’s right.

If our foundation was corrupt, shouldn’t it all be uprooted? Shouldn’t we start over?

“No one’s been watching her,” I finally heave out. “We assumed she’s always in her work--”

“Because she is--” Arlen cuts in.

“We haven’t been monitoring her, so we can’t be sure--”

“There are plenty in her infirmary that can witness--”

“She was too adamant about going to the front when she’s always held back--”

“You know she’s holding the Barovian Bloodbath around her neck like an albatross, Heath!” Arlen is vicious, and his words cut me in my doubts. “She’s the one most qualified to be here to save lives, and you know it!”

“Arlen! I don’t know what to tell you!” I lift my hands, and again, I feel helpless. I stare past him to the murky window filtering in the morning light. “I was told to keep an eye on you.”

“Do you believe me?”

I snarl, shaking my head. “Arlen, that’s not--”

“Look at me! Do you BELIEVE me?”

I gum my lips together and I look at him. He’s standing in the low light, drained of color, fine hair flying about him like an ethereal ghost. His pale green eyes dance with ardent sincerity. He’s earnest. Desperate in a way I’m not used to. My eyes linger over the faint, pink line of the wound he took today, a scar that will fade with magic and time.

If he’s the traitor, he doesn’t need to beg me to believe him. If he’s the traitor, he didn’t need to try so hard on the front. If he’s the traitor, he doesn’t have anything to gain from putting on such an elaborate show of grief for me. In my experience, the exhaustion of the battlefield doesn’t leave much in you except a broken filter of honesty. You’re tired. You can’t think as clearly as usual. You’re closer to the heart of yourself.

I don’t think he’s lying to me.

“I believe you,” I tell him softly, and the words hit him like bricks. He falters on his heels, and I watch Arlen sink to the bed, slumped with relief. I shake my head and remember everything that’s been happening. “But Arlen, this doesn’t look good for you OR Tourmaline. You both were flagrantly withholding information in the Zone of Truth.”

His back stiffens. “What, a man has to expose his entire private life?”

Tourmaline disappeared the nights leading up to and after the Barovian Bloodbath. She refused to disclose what happened those nights. And Arlen . . .

I clench my teeth and shake my head. “Arlen, why won’t you just tell us where you’ve been going?”

We assumed it was a druid thing. He told us he went deep into the Svalich Woods to pray, to reacquaint himself with the land, and to keep the feral druids in check. We never thought to ask more. We trusted him. But the Zone of Truth detected this story as a lie. He refused to tell the truth. Every time he took his days off, he didn’t rest--he rushed out into the nighttime wilderness where no one could find him, and no one can check his story.

“I’ve never once had my loyalties called into question,” Arlen sneers at me. “You said you believed me! Is that a lie?”

“No! Arlen, I’m just trying to--” I break off and shrug my hands palm up to him. “Arlen, if you would just tell us where you’ve been going, we’d be able to clear your name!”

“It’s too late for me. If the Righteous Hand thinks I’m guilty, who’s to believe otherwise?”

“I believe otherwise,” I stress for him again, and I see the whiplash of emotions cross over him. He turns his face away. “Diama is new to this, but she’s not impartial, Arlen. She’s being cautious, as she should.” I stare at him, and he’s so tied up in the knots of his lies and his guilt that he refuses to look at me. I drop my tone softer. “Arlen, talk to me. Let me help you. WHY won’t you tell us what’s going on?”

For a moment, there’s dead silence. I can hear footsteps outside, the clink of armor, swords on whetstones, and the low din of people speaking. Arlen’s hair falls across his cheek like a shield.

He laughs. Soft and weak. “Heath. Frankly, I’m screwed. Things have caught up with me, and I’ll be exposed sooner or later.”

He doesn’t elaborate. I press him gently, asking, “Yeah?”

“It’s treason, Heath.” I stare at him. He lifts his face to me, and he’s twisted up with a grim smile. “Don’t you understand? If she thinks I’m the traitor, it’s treason. If she finds out where I was trying to go, it’s treason.”

I feel stupid. He’s dropping so many hints to me. I’m missing the most important piece. “I’m sorry,” I say to him. I shift on my feet. “I don’t understand.”

Arlen scowls. “God you’re so dense sometimes. I was trying to go home, Heath!”

“But the mists--”

“Damn the mists, and damn this country!” He yanks his short swords from his slender hips and throws them. They hit the wall with a BANG! “Desertion, Heath! I was trying to desert the Gauntlet!”

He punches my lungs out. I gawk at him like a fool. His elbows and jaw are like jagged glass, sharp and defensive as he stands in front of me, half dressed and his secrets laid naked to me. He’s not repentant. Arlen’s chin is hiked high, like he’s daring me to berate him for his choices.

Two hundred years. He’s lived nearly three of my lifetimes in this place. His voice cracked over that word “home” the way his words fray when he denies explaining his druidic skills. The way Theltama always told us he was a gifted musician and vocalist, and yet I’ve never heard him play or sing.

I see this man, who’s done his duty here for so long and can’t escape it. I see a man who can’t call this place home like I do, finding the good where I can and living happily with my daughter. Arlen is wretched with wants he can’t attain past the veil of this dimension.

Home. I wonder what kind of a family he had. What kind of a life he may have lived before getting stuck in this hell. Did he have a daughter, like I do? Did he not get to watch her grow up?

“Say something!” he snaps at me. His chest heaves with sharp breaths. “I know what I’ve done! And I don’t care! This isn’t my place! This fucking country can’t have me!” His green eyes burn like a forest in drought. He points in the direction of Castle Ravenloft. “If those idiots actually manage to kill Strahd, then good fucking riddance! The second those mists part, I’m leaving! And gods know I won’t look back on this miserable speck of land ever again!”

I stand there, whipped by his anguish and fury. I didn’t know his doubts and fears had festered so deep. I didn’t know he was crumbling from the inside out. I find my words for him.

“Arlen--”

“Don’t lecture me on loyalty,” he hisses. “No one here has lived through what I have! You haven’t lived long enough to see the same eyes born in different people! You made your mark here and you have your daughter! You’ve got it fucking made, Heath!” His shoulders cow like a bow, defensive over his heart. “No one here knows what it’s like to have your family waiting for you just beyond the mists, and to know you can never leave!”

His voice breaks again. I’m looking at this man who’s exhausted, strung out, on his last leg, and mind cracking under the stress of his sins. I see the sleight beauty and grace of the elves in him, the pointed ears, the beautiful eyes and hidden talent of music, and I suddenly see Melinda in him. My heart pinches.

If they don’t kill Strahd . . . If they’re forced to retreat . . . Will she be stuck here too? Will she rot from the inside like Arlen did? I’m struck by the thought of my own mortality, and my stomach turns heavy as lead. She’ll outlive me. Gods, she could outlive me twice over. How is that fair to her? I--

No. I shake off those thoughts. Not now. I can’t deal with that now. “Arlen,” I say to him, and I take a small step forward. He jerks away, the backs of his knees hitting the bed. “You’re not the only one here like that--” He snarls under his breath when he senses where I’m going, but I don’t give quarter. “Why do you think Melinda’s been fighting so hard this whole time? She set out searching for her family. She was never supposed to be caught in the mists.”

“Then it’s her own damn fault for straying too close,” he snaps. Arlen turns away and walks to the window with clenched fists. His willowy body is drawn like a bowstring about to snap he’s so full of tension. “She’ll make her grave here with the rest of these damned people, and the sun will fade from her eyes too.”

He’s pulled in so many different directions. I stare at him, wondering again at his hatred of Melinda, the choice of his words here, but I feel like it’s a different issue I can’t pursue now. I try to veer him back to the issue at hand.

“Arlen, we need you. We--”

“You don’t need me,” he seethes. “This land doesn’t need a druid, it needs men of the gods, and loyal ones at that. Not cowards that run for a chance at ancient history.” He leans his forearm against the grimy window. His shoulders slump, and I’m struck by how old, how frail he looks. “This place needs fresh blood like you, blazing a path to the future.”

“Fresh blood like me is useless without someone to lead them, like you.” He winces at my swift turnaround. “Out there, Arlen? All those troops looked to you for leadership, and let me tell you, from what I caught of the tail end of things? You’re meant for leadership like that.”

“Don’t say such things!” He turns his face away and hunches inward, like I’ve suckerpunched him. “I’m not meant for this land. I don’t belong here. I belong home, with my family--” He rakes his hand through his hair, pulling on the pin-straight tresses like he can rip his hurts out from the scalp. “I was supposed to . . . He’s not . . .”

Arlen won’t like this, but I can’t just ignore him when he’s hurting. I walk up to him, and when I grab him, tuck him in close to my chest, he fights me like a rabid cat, hissing and twisting. “Let go of me! Let GO!” He’s too tired, too weak, and too upset to escape my arms. I hold him there until he gives in, and it’s an unwilling yield. His hands are fisted and his teeth tear into his bottom lip until it bleeds. He thunks his head against the front of my armor and stares at the ground.

We stand there in a graceless embrace. Arlen’s wheezing, sucking up tears like his life depends on it, and I keep my face turned and let him control it.

Finally, he whispers, “I had a nephew. He was a half elf. When the sun touched his golden hair, I could see his halo. His eyes were as green as the summer fields and held flecks of the sun in them.”

I know those eyes. They’re Melinda’s.

“He was a child when I left. I doubt he’s alive anymore.”

I hold him tighter. I think of Ori, beyond the mists, growing up without me, and my heart aches.

“This place has stolen all my time from me, Heath. It's stolen my family from me. I hate it for that.”

I scramble for something to say. “Well,” I hedge, “maybe . . . I know it hurts, but you’re not the only one, Arlen. You’re not alone in this.” He scoffs a sarcastic laugh. “Listen to me,” and I hold him out at arm’s length. His eyes are red-rimmed, but dry.

“That’s the great curse of this place, right? That everyone suffers? And we have so many who join the Gauntlet, to stand up against that idea, to say that the suffering stops here. Right?” Arlen doesn’t respond to that. He’s avoiding looking at me, but I keep plowing forward, hoping that my words make sense to him.

“That’s why we’re here. No one should have to have their life sucked away like this. Everyone should have the chance to be with their family, to see and feel the warmth of the sun, to be loved.” I give him a small shake to make sure he’s tracking with me. “That’s why we’re making this push here, and now, to finally release Barovia from it’s prison. You shouldn’t have to suffer, and neither should they. Right?” When he doesn’t reply, I shake him again. “Right?”

The breath he draws is thin and watery. “Right.”

“And that’s why we need you,” I press. I poke his chest. “You’ve been here the longest. You understand the way this place works. You’ve been Strahd’s longest-standing enemy. That’s why we value your knowledge and advice so much. You’re always the first we go to for guidance. That’s why the men out there, on that battlefield, can trust you. In all my time on the front, I’ve never been able to achieve the kind of unity you did out there today.”

His brows are cinched with pain. His eyelids flutter, and he says stiffly, “Please don’t compliment my leadership skills when I’d sooner desert them than lead them.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I don’t fault you.”

“You should.”

“If you don’t think Ori comes first in my life before everything, including my duty, you’re wrong, Arlen.” He looks up at me. My heart swells with encouragement. “So you see, maybe you do desert after things are said and done. When Strahd is gone and the mists lift, you’ll have that choice to make. So will everyone else. But we have to get there, right?”

When I wait for his answer, he bucks up an unwilling, “Right,” but he sounds more sure of himself.

“So we do it for the people. We hold the front, and we protect our own, and the innocents that deserve to live a life from under Strahd’s rule. That’s what we’re called to do, right? You swore under Helm, the Vigilant, the Great Guard. We’re sworn to protect, to be guardians to the people, defenders and enforcers. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. I feel his shoulders straighten under my hands, and when he looks at me this time, I feel like I’m finally seeing him. “I haven’t forgotten,” he says.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I tell him. “Here and now, when our knights need us, when the Barovian people need us, we’ll do all we can to help them and put an end to this. And maybe when it’s all over, and we succeed, and there’s light in this land again, you’ll be free to go home. But,” and I give him a wry smile, “I think I’ll miss you, old man.”

He snorts. He sobers quickly, and he puts his hand on mine, gripping hard. “You’re a good man, Heath. Barovia is blessed to have you.”

I chuckle and let go of him. I clap his back before letting my arms fall to my side. “You’re a good man too, Arlen. Don’t forget that either.”

His lips press. “Could be better.”

I arch a brow at him. “Then be better.”

“Tch, things are always so simple with you.”

“One of us has to keep from overthinking things.”

I smile when Arlen grunts to cover up a laugh. He chafes his arms in the chill of the morning, and I take a step back. “Get some rest, Arlen,” I tell him. I’m tired, but I feel bolstered in the wake of this conversation. The reminder of what I’m fighting for is like a drug of courage for me. This time, when I step out on that battlefield, I take the thoughts of Arlen and his nephew with me to fuel my charge. “You’ll see your family again, I promise.”

This time, there’s the ghost of a timid--yet sincere--and heartfelt smile on him. I feel like I’ve achieved something rare and precious. He nods his head to me, and when he says, “Thank you,” I know I’ve done the right thing here.


End file.
